Basil of Baker Street and the Rogues of Madame Mussaud's
by Brinatello
Summary: An unknown mouse arrives at Baker Street to deliver a letter supposedly from one of Basil's old friends: a curator of the famous wax museum Madame Mussaud's. On the account of the shady messenger and the letter typed in an illiterate manner, Basil concludes something is afoot, and he and Dawson set out to investigate.
1. Chapter 1

Basil of Baker Street

And the Rogues of Madame Mussaud's

By Brinatello

**Disclaimer: All of the characters are property of Disney and are from their 26th animated feature, **_**The Great Mouse Detective**_** as well as the Basil of Baker Street children's series by Eve Titus.**

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Chapter 1  
24 October 1897  
London, England

From the Diary of Doctor David Q. Dawson

A private consulting detective once said to me that crime never sleeps. Truer words could not be spoken after living with that same detective for over four months now. Basil of Baker Street had been putting criminals behind bars long before I shook his hand and took the role of his official biographer. This extraordinary mouse exceeded his fame after conquering the nefarious Professor Ratigan during the queen's Diamond Jubilee. The two fought to the death atop the clock tower of Parliament; we were certain the fiendish rat did not survive the one hundred and eighty foot drop.

Word of Basil's triumph over Ratigan soon rang out far and wide. There was not one mouse who would thank him on a street corner or, heaven help him, ask for an autograph. He despised this amount of attention and assured these folks that he was only doing his job. The praise did not cease, for the next unexpected honor appeared right in front of his face in the daily newspaper. Madame Mussaud's announced the creation of a new wax figure for their museum. I did not have to ask who it was they intended to make!

This news did not surprise Basil. He had known the museum's curator, Benjamin Loveur, for more than a decade. Preparations were already underway to start bringing his distinctive features to life. A letter to arrange a sitting with Mr. Loveur arrived on a cold Thursday in the late afternoon hours. Basil stared at the timid mouse who did not say a word or make eye contact as he delivered the message. From my point of view, I could see he was quietly observing this stranger from top to bottom.

"Urgent message from the Madame Mussaud museum, sir," I could hear the mouse say in a low stutter of a voice. Basil took the letter from the mouse and examined it carefully. I could almost hear the well-oiled wheels quietly spinning inside his head. Our visitor bowed once and skirted away before he could be further questioned. Basil closed his front door and stared down at the envelope's address. Marylebone Road was only one block away from us. He knew exactly where it came from and almost tossed it back outside the door had I not intervened.

"Basil, wait! You're not going to read it?"

"I already know what this is about, Dawson, and I am not going," said he in a finality tone.

"But, I thought you said the curator is a friend of yours."

"That he is, dear doctor. Loveur and I have been friends for quite a long time. I also know he would not allow some ruffian to deliver it." I went to ask what he meant by that, but Basil continued. "I have known the staff since the museum first opened. Therefore, I quickly deduced our messenger was not from his employee record."

"How do you know this-"

"Simple, Dawson!" Basil strode over to the center of the room as he explained his typical observation. "Although he wore pressed, clean clothes and neatly combed his fur, he could not hide his battle wounds from one too many street fights. I noticed a faded bruise from a black eye, healed scars on the same hand with the letter, he sported some deep gashes upon his rugged face, and he reeked of alcohol. His whereabouts come directly from the underworld. He is a thief, a drunk, and longs for lust after watching the flapper girls on stage in the Rat Trap." Pausing with a sigh, he finished in a softer tone, "I have no doubt in my mind that he is from Ratigan's gang of thugs and that this is all a ruse."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Oh, now you are jumping to irrational conclusions, Bas-" I cringed to the sound of paper ripping and dared to turn my head. He was not tearing the letter up, but rather sliding a finger across the envelope and pulling out the note. I watched him unfold the paper and clear his throat, preparing to read it out loud:

_"To Mr. Basil,_

_Greetings to you! With the New Year arriving in a couple of months, we are setting out to create a brand new set of wax figures for our visiters, and it is with our greatest pleasure to welcome you into our home of famous mice from around the world. The vote was __unannimouse__ unanimous, and we need your help in building a wax figure of you. All we ask in return is some donnations of your clothing and a bit of your time for measurements and fur samples to perserve your figure. Please arrive no later than 5 p.m. We are looking forward to your partisipation!_

_Regards,_

_Benjamin M. Loveur_

I nodded after a long moment of silence. "And here I was expecting a bomb. There, you see? It is from your friend after all!"

"You only heard the contents, Dawson, now use your sense of sight," he said, smacking the letter harshly into my chest. "Mr. Loveur, a highly educated mouse, would never have sent such a message with dreadful grammatical errors."

Suddenly my heart sank as I held the letter and viewed the numerous mistakes.

"Oh, my...what are you going to do?"

"It looks as though I will be accepting that invitation after all," Basil said while untying the sash of his housecoat and placing the garment wherever gravity allowed it to fall. Next he reached for his worn Inverness and slipped it on himself. While buttoning the coat and applying his deerstalker, he turned to see me remaining in the same spot. "Are you not accompanying me, Dawson?"

"Oh...oh, yes, of course!" I dipped my head, glad that I missed a smirk and a roll to the eyes such as he had done before with my tardiness. I placed the letter down on the desk, but a voice immediately instructed that I bring it along with us. Before I could retrieve it, a flash of a hand already had it refolded and back in the jaggedly-torn envelope. I tossed on my bowler hat, overcoat and lastly made a grab for an umbrella. I knew I was at his side within mere seconds, but the impatient mouse that he is still inwardly clocked it.

"Forty-eight seconds...not bad, considering it usually takes you longer than that!"

I huffed a little before asking, "Where exactly are we going?"

"To the museum, naturally," he responded half in and half out the door. "Before the game is afoot, thou still let'st slip!"

One block away was a simple man's journey. For us mice, we had to walk in a time frame up to at least a half an hour. It did not help with dodging puddles on the pavement, avoiding the feet of those giant humans, and worst of all, stray cats lurked in every possible corner. Basil gave Toby, his trusty hound, the night off, and opted to hop on the nearest hansom to our destination.

"We should arrive at the museum no later than four," I told him, holding up my pocket watch in one hand and hanging on to my bowler hat with the other. I received a minor nod in response, and that meant he was thinking again. He usually sat with a blank, outward squint of a stare, his pipe clenched between his teeth. Here, I was sitting next to a statue, one that would occasionally raise a hand to keep his deerstalker from falling off. "Are you all right?" This brought him out of his trance and he sighed a little, repeating his answer with a second nod.

"Dawson, remember when you said you were expecting a bomb when I opened Loveur's letter?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"You reminded me of the day when we really did receive a letter bomb. Do you recall it?"

I could recall it as if it were yesterday. It happened a week after the queen's Diamond Jubilee. Basil was still recovering from his injuries while I was settling in to my new quarters. We both had a trying day and retiring sounded like the best medicine a doctor could prescribe. As we turned off the lights, we heard small raps on the front door. Through the window, Basil caught sight of a mouse darting away toward the pavement. Whoever it was, he did not wait around for one of us to greet him. Basil opened the door and found an envelope left neatly on the ground. The bomb, intended to snuff all victims within range, only fizzled a few sparks after he opened it. The bomb was fortunately defected. Aside from the explosive, a single piece of paper was the only contents of the envelope with two words written upon it: 'Say Cheese.'

"Of course, Basil," I nodded after my brief memory visit into the past. "Why do you ask?"

"Premeditated murder is a persistent tribulation of mine, Dawson," said he, lifting a smirk. "Many wish to close the curtain on me a lot sooner. Heh. Meanwhile, there is a famous museum planning to create a wax figure of myself, therefore, _opening_ a curtain on me instead! Ironic, is it not?"

"Quite," I smiled back, yet looked away with a frown. Basil may quip about such things, but I for one had a great fear of those death threats he received. The followers of the professor had not only become mourners, some of them wanted revenge on my friend. He had enemies long before crossing paths with Ratigan, but after defeating him and being hailed a hero, there were those who felt that he needed to pay. Why it was linked to this curator's museum, I was not sure at that point, but one thing was certain: we were getting ourselves involved in another intriguing case!

As we approached the museum, the cabbie was not stopping. We had to make a last minute jump for it. I hated disembarking this way, but Basil was in no mood for my usual griping. With a fastened hook around my wrist, we both landed safely on the cold concrete. The thought did not even cross his mind to count to three!

"Basil, you could have at least warned me you were going to jump-"

"True, but what would have been the fun in that?" His grin was back, only this time wider and much more mischievous. Saving himself a lecture, he gripped the same wrist again and tugged my poor self forward. "This way, Dawson!"

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End of Chapter 1. Notes:

I can't remember where I came across the name, Benjamin Loveur, but it had some sort of tie to the real wax museum of Madame Tussaud's in London. I changed the name to 'Mussauds' to differentiate the two between the human and mouse world.

Basil tends to quote Shakespeare, such as this line: "Before the game is afoot, thou still let'st slip!" from Henry IV Pt 1 Act 1 Scene 3.

Basil getting a bomb in a letter was inspired by a scene in "The Sherlockian" about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. When he killed off Sherlock Holmes in The Final Problem, he received death threats including a bomb that went off in a letter. Fortunately, it was defected.


	2. Chapter 2

Basil of Baker Street and the Rogue of Madame Mussauds  
Chapter 2

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Dawson-

Madame Tussaud's for the human world shone brightly in contrast to the dismal London fog and downpour. I briefly glanced up at the electric lights and bold lettering in the marquee. The clumsy giants splashed along the streets while several more waited to enter the museum. Such places as these were entertaining, but like my detective friend, I was curious to know who sent that thug to his door and urge him to come over to this tourist trap. Basil would not rest until he got solid answers. For that matter, nor would I.

Upon entering the foyer of Madame Mussauds, I closed my umbrella and shook it lightly. The spacious room had a buzz of chattering mice. A smile formed when I realized the amount of attention Basil would get once they created his wax figure. I had secretly hoped it would stand in a spot many visitors walked through the most. The mouse himself was too busy to notice my content expression and gave a low scoff.

"There's too much twaddle in this room," he dully said. "It's disrupting my frequencies." My grin slowly faded as I turned to watch him scan the open space. I could only see mice of every shape, size, and gender looking over the exhibits. No one seemed out of the ordinary. To Basil, however, his sharp brain was constantly working and gathering information. Moments later, I could hear someone quietly chanting next to us.

"Killing mice, killing mice, killing mice..."

"Is that what she said?"

"Yes, she was a devil woman! She really did try to kill some of us and she succeeded! I managed to escape."

"What was her name again?"

"Mary Pearcey," Basil said to the two lady mice, seeing them both stare blankly at him. "Pardon for the interruption, but that was her name. Rarely do I read crime reports on humans, but these particular acts of violence did indeed have some involvement with our species. She did have a reputation of trying to step on mice whenever possible and she did it in the most unladylike fashion."

"I heard Pearcey isn't even her real last name," one of the two ladies piped up.

"You heard correctly," Basil nodded. "She took the surname from a carpenter she loved, but due to her infidelity, he left her. She became involved with another suitor, one Frank Hogg by name, who was involved with another lover named Phoebe Styles. She bore him a child and this enraged Ms Pearcey, enough to kill them both."

"Oh, my," was all I could plainly utter.

"She was convicted for the murder of her lover's wife and infant daughter," Basil went on with a smug expression I knew far too well. He loved showing off his knowledge to anyone who cared to listen. "Blood stains were found splattered all over the walls and ceiling. When apprehended, Ms. Pearcey said she was trying to kill mice. It would not surprise me if she took us out one by one."

"They have her wax figure in Tussaud's," the chanting mouse replied. "I've seen it before in the Chamber of Horrors. It's a frightening sight!"

"You really should not venture where humans dwell; it's not safe," I told her in a worried tone of voice. The ladies looked young, around the same age as Basil, and they were dressed in middle class attire. The chanting female pursed her lips while the other crossed her arms.

"The tip is appreciative, but unnecessary since we're never going back there again," the companion replied, eyeing her friend. "Isn't that right, Jillian?" I looked to the girl and waited for her reply. I did not expect a male voice to answer instead.

"It is also unnecessary when we have our own exhibit of that murderous woman." All four of us noticed an official-looking mouse emerging from the crowds. "Good afternoon, everyone."

"Benjamin Loveur, I presume?" I asked merely as a confirmation, but judging by his attire, I knew it had to be him. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I am-"

"Doctor David Dawson, yes of course! I remember reading about you being thanked by the queen. Welcome to my museum!" Loveur extended his hand. I calmly shook it twice, retracting first. I did not have a good feeling about this mouse, not even when he wore a friendly expression. Turning to the ladies, he continued with his conversation. "As I was saying, the display is only of Miss Pearcey's dress, legs, and shoes. We then placed figures of squished victims surrounding her feet. Causes a bit of the stir to the faint of heart, but that's how our business runs. You really should see it."

And see it we did. Loveur led us all into the Chamber of Horrors section of the museum. I felt a cold chill upon entering the room with the accompaniment of uneasiness. There were a number of ghastly displays of torture devices. We then arrived at a large pair of a woman's legs and feet. The scene was a dreadful one of Pearcey's lower form and scattered false corpses.

"But, wait, there's more! Watch this, folks..." Loveur walked around to the back of the display and pushed a button none of us could see. Before we could speak, one of the shoes suddenly came to life and rose off the ground! I let out a gasp at the sight of this wax object moving on its own. The shoe immediately returned to the floor and stomped upon one of the bodies of the wax mice.

"You've added _mechanical_ wax figures, Loveur?" Basil said, raising an eyebrow. "How extraordinary..."

"Impressive, no?" Loveur said, looking pleased with himself. "This is the next step in our museum, a giant leap to a more successful show!" I quietly listened to the curator ramble on about how he contacted an anonymous yet talented inventor, soon realizing Basil had left my side to stand by the entrance of the room. My eyes did not deceive me; he climbed over the rope off the aisle and was looking around the floor as if he lost something. As Loveur began showing the two ladies how Pearcey's robot foot worked, I carefully stepped away to see what the detective was up to.

"Basil?" I paused at the sudden thrust of his hand stopping me. "What is it?"

"Look here, Dawson," he said, pointing to the floor. "There are a few scruff marks from something that was dragged from this spot. Also... whatever was standing here has left a faint trail of...blood." As he said that last word, I felt a sting of fright. Blood? I did not understand what was going on, but I knew we were getting ourselves involved into something rather strange. Basil caught sight of Mr. Loveur ending his conversation with the ladies and swiftly stepped back over the rope into the aisle, acting as normal as he could. Loveur walked over to us, fortunately never taking note of the detective's brief investigation.

"There you are, Mr. Basil. Enjoying my _animated_ museum so far? Rather a _lively_ one, is it not?" Loveur laughed pompously at his own puns.

Basil released an equal bit of fake laughter. "You have an abundance of interesting displays here, Loveur. Horrific or not, the show must go on, eh?"

"How very true," the curator nodded, extending a hand to pat his shoulder. "This is a rather unexpected visit. I have not seen you since the Dark Ages. What brings you out in the cold and into my humble museum?"

"Why, _your_ letter, of course," Basil slyly replied while reaching into his coat pocket. He paused briefly to acknowledge the two lady mice watching us before moving closer to Mr. Loveur. Although they turned and walked away from us, they were still in ear shot range. Loveur lowered his gaze at the sight of the letter handed to him. Basil, meanwhile, was watching his every whim of a reaction.

"I sent no such thing! Who delivered this to you? Clearly no one from my staff."

"We believe it came from someone from the...underground," I said in a quieter voice while my peripheral vision remained on the two ladies. The one named Jillian could not stop staring in our direction; even Basil caught on of this and made a low clearing of his throat. My attention turned back to him. "What?"

"Nothing, Dawson," he muttered, adding more loudly to Loveur, "Perhaps it would be best if we could discuss this matter elsewhere?"

"Of course. Come with me, please." Bowing slightly, Loveur added to the ladies, "Thank you for your time; please enjoy the rest of your visit." As we started to walk away, I lightly tapped Basil's arm and lowered my voice.

"Those two seemed awfully suspicious. Did you not see the way that one named Jillian kept her eye on us?"

"I see everything, Dawson, but you already knew that," he replied in the same hushed volume.

"If I wasn't mistaken, I'd think that young miss had taken a fancy to me," I could not help myself as the words came out with a soft chuckle.

"She might have, Dawson, if her hand was not already taken," Basil said with a wink. "It is painfully obvious that you failed to notice the wedding band wrapped around her finger." I gulped and felt my face flush. "Now kindly remove your head from the clouds and bring it back down here. I need you to focus!"

Mr. Loveur motioned us over to the same door he first came through and urged us to enter it. We walked into an area the public never sees, more specifically for employees to create the forms and costumes for the wax figures. Several mice were back there either working on their creations or sitting at tables on a smoke break. For some reason, that same uneasiness struck me once more. The further we moved away from public eyes, the less safer we felt.

"This here is our work station. As you can see, we've got many figures in the process of completion and ready for the galleries. Now, if you'll follow me-"

"Mr. Loveur!" a worker mouse called out from behind two wax figures dressed from the Renaissance era. "Might I have a moment, please?"

"Excuse me, gents," Loveur left our side to handle whatever crisis had befallen upon his employee. From what I could tell, he was having difficulty with the assorted accessories to either apply or remove. As we waited, I found myself eyeing around the entire area, attempting not to stare at a pair of mice who kept looming their gaze toward us. One of the two workers rose to his feet, flicked his cigarette aside and walked over to a large figure with a white sheet covering it. Curiosity got the better of me and I started to follow him.

"What're ye starin' at, chump?" the worker mouse suddenly sneered at me.

"I do beg your pardon, er- sir-"

"Drop the 'sir' rubbish, the name's Charles Brunswick."

"My apologies, Mr. Brunswick-"

"Just Charles will do, chump!"

"Er...right...Charles..." I swallowed and cleared my throat. "I was just looking at that figure you've got there. Is that some sort of warrior?"

"Not a warrior, chump, though, he was considered pretty large for a mouse," Charles said, tapping the sheet. "He's going to be one of our new figures with mechanical parts. Tried 'im out this morning before the museum opened, but we had to bring 'im back here. Keeps breakin' down on us..." My heart started to thump harder as I stared at the size of this figure. He was several inches taller in height, more than the rest of us in the entire room. Feeling a presence beside me, I turned to see Basil standing there, also gawking at the sheet. "D'wanna a little peek at 'im, chump?"

I looked at the figure, then to Charles. "Um, well, only if we're allowed to-"

"Yes, we would," Basil suddenly snapped, giving a demanding expression to Charles.

The worker shrugged listlessly and lifted the sheet up partway, just enough to see who exactly was hiding under there. The second mouse, who had been watching us, rose up from his seat, and started over to us. That was no large mouse under there. It was a rat, and not just any rat, it was the Napoleon of crime himself! I felt myself taking several steps back to get a full view of Professor Ratigan as a head to toe wax figure. Charles and the second mouse let out a small laugh.

"Ha ha, did you see them flinch Leonard? We were successful!"

I was not sure how long I stared up and down at the figure, nor how many seconds Basil's mandible remained dropped. It was easy to say that we were both in a considerable amount of surprise. I managed to utter: "Um...well..uh... that's a...that's a very convincing replica of the criminal mastermind, boys!"

"Yes, a little too convincing," Basil said quietly, unable to take his eyes off of it. "Dare I ask how you both achieved such an accomplishment as this?"

"It wasn't easy mate, let me tell ya-" Leonard began, getting elbowed in the ribs by Charles.

"We are not permitted to revealing our secrets," he flatly told the detective. "All's we could tell you is we took a trip to the underworld t' seek answers to those who would provide it. Ya know, the ones who knew the professor real well. We only asked for what clothes were usually worn, fur colors, height, weight, everything we needed to make his figure for our museum."

"You mean _my_ museum." Loveur did it again by speaking at a distance. The speed of his walk indicated he was not pleased with his workers showing off one of their finest creations. In a swift move, he covered Ratigan's figure back up with the sheet. Basil continued to stare at the figure long after it was concealed while Loveur rounded on his employees. "I thought I told you two never to show any outsiders your work! Not until the final curtain is drawn back, remember?"

"Sorry boss," Charles muttered, yet judging by his tone, he did not sound like he was.

"Mr. Basil, Dr. Dawson, what you saw was something that was not meant to be shown until months later," Loveur said with a sigh. "These buffoons are not too bright, nor do they know how to follow orders very well."

"Not very educated, would you say?" Basil asked.

"I'm afraid not, detective, no." At those words, Basil inhaled deeply and gave one last look. Loveur looked to the sheet as well, then back at him. "Seeing his figure must have been very unsettling for you, Mr. Basil. I do apologize for any discomfort my workers may have caused you."

"Think nothing of it, Loveur," Basil waved a dismissive hand. "I am more concerned about that letter I received."

"Indeed. I am deeply disappointed in whomever is responsible for this despicable infringement," Mr. Loveur began, lifting up and reading over the fake letter. "I told so few that I had planned to make your figure. I did not intend for it to leak to the daily newspaper. We have not even started on it. There is nothing to show for."

Basil briefly looked around at the workers before asking, "Which few were given this information?"

"Only Charles and Leonard, two of my best sculptures," Mr. Loveur replied, adding, "they may not be smart, but they are highly gifted in their skills. They were the only ones I told of this project. Someone must have overheard our conversation."

"Obviously." I did not have to look; Basil had rolled his eyes a little. "So, where do you think that letter-"

"You mean this monstrosity! It never would have left my desk!" Mr. Loveur waved it in the air, now with a voice of disgust. "Not only is my secretary, Josephine Black, the handler of our mail and newsletters, she is also the only one who has access to my office."

"Mm-hm. Is Ms Black available for questioning?" Basil asked next.

Mr. Loveur shook his head. "No, she left at three. She usually stays till five, but she was feeling a little under the weather and left earlier than usual."

"I see," Basil nodded, looking my way.

"I understand your frustrations, Mr. Basil, what with receiving an unusual letter from someone pretending it came from me." Mr. Loveur hung his shoulders and looked around at his workers. Each of them continued to keep their heads down. One of them was sitting on a crate with some stencil writing that I could not read unless I wore my glasses. Basil surely read it just fine yet chose to keep the information to himself.

"Might I have a look around your office?"

"My...private office?" Mr. Loveur appeared agitated at those words. Basil only lifted an eyebrow for getting another question to his question. "Certainly. This way, please..."

The more we moved on, the more I kept thinking we would never see the light of day again. This next section we entered was even darker than the previous with a single gas lamp lit beside a large, oak door. The door had the word, "Private" scratched within its center. Mr. Loveur entered first to pull on a chain attached to a hanging light bulb.

"This is my office," he lamely stated. Scattered papers, books, folders and pencils all covered the top surface of the curator's desk. Had I not viewed the contents attentively I would have missed a typewriter hidden beneath the clutter! Did a tornado come through here? This mess reminded me very much like Basil's chemistry desk in his laboratory. My friend took no time in sweeping his eyes all over the desk, the room, or anywhere that would provide clues for him. I could tell he was searching for something, but what? Mr. Loveur also noticed his prying eyes and asked, "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Can you leave me with my assistant?" Basil snapped. If Mr. Loveur could ask a question to a question, so could my friend, and in the most impolite tone I might add.

"Er, of course, but, I don't know-"

"Very good, very good...thank you..." Basil shoved him out the door and closed it tight. I was appalled at what I had just witnessed. Basil threw Mr. Loveur out of his own office! Before I could say a word, I was greeted with an expression that told me to button my lip. "There was a break-in, doctor."

"What do you-"

"Sh-shh! This is clearly a disrupted environment. Look over here." Basil gestured to the door and pointed out pieces of the wood chipped away. "A crow bar was used here to get inside this room." The next thing he did was fish through the wastebasket and smooth out any balled up pieces of paper he came across. With narrowed eyes, he exclaimed, "Ah-ha! Here is a draft letter made for me filled with more grammar errors. The thug was undoubtedly sitting in this chair and typing on this typewriter." A large accounting book almost the size of the desk caught Basil's attention. In the corner of my eye I noticed him open the heavy cover, reading through the notes to himself. Shifting a stack of papers aside, I heard him gasp. "What the..."

"Have you found something?"

"I most certainly have...look at the name of this inventor..." I came around the desk to find my friend staring down what appeared to be a model sheet on making mechanical robots. The featured robot looked like something created by the hands of an old acquaintance of ours. It only took me a few seconds to realize why Basil had gasped the way he did. "Well, now, this certainly explains the creation of his movable figures..."

"Flaversham," we both uttered. An attached letter with the model sheets clearly stated that Flaversham was contacted by Louver to aid him and his workers in making robot wax figures and other body parts. I added, "But, I don't understand! This is a _wax_ museum, why would they need to make mechanical ones too?"

"Why, to make more money, of course!" Basil exclaimed. "That's all what these businesses are interested in." His brow knitted tightly together as he stepped away to quietly search the room some more. As I followed suit, my eyes did a quick view along the contents of the desk, pausing on a few sparkling pieces of blue circles.

"What are these?" Basil took out his magnifying glass and squinted at the little circles.

"It's sequins, Dawson. They are usually sewn into a performer's costume, usually a dancer. It's naturally not from the clothing of Loveur, but from the clothing of...someone else that has been in here...?" A knock to the door pulled him from his concentration. Basil shook his head and proceeded to return everything to its normal state except clutching the small cluster of sequins. In a whisper of a voice, he hissed to me, "Oh, confound it...hurry, Dawson, close that book!" In a flash, I reached over and carefully closed the accounting book just as a second knock alerted our ears.

"Mr. Basil? Dr. Dawson? Are you done yet?" Basil opened the door to reveal Mr. Loveur standing very close to the frame. Too close for his own comfort. Was he eavesdropping on our conversation? "Goodness, chap, I was starting to worry about you two! Is everything all right?"

"So far. Tell me, who else besides you and your secretary have access to this room?"

Mr. Loveur frowned a little before answering. "I already told you, no one!"

"Really? Finding these sequins on your desk seems to tell me otherwise," Basil said, opening his palm to expose the sparkling circles of evidence. Mr. Loveur, turning as flushed as I did when I heard that Jillian mouse was married, swallowed a little and lowered his eyes to the ground.

"Fine, detective, I'll confess. Someone else used to access this room besides myself and my secretary." Due to the hesitation in his voice, Basil remained quiet, expecting to hear more. "My brother, Henry, used to come in here often, had his own key, but I've lost a little trust in him." Basil continued to wait to hear the rest. "He was my bookkeeper, but he always kept making mistakes. His math education was poor, yet he knew the difference between adding and subtracting when it came to money. When the figures were not adding up correctly and large sums of banknotes had gone missing, I had to tell him he was no longer welcome here."

"What about these?" I gestured to the sequins in Basil's hand.

"He'd invite a lady caller into my office, one from the costume department. She must of had one of our costumes in her possession as she was in here with him. I have often found this door locked one too many times, and I knew he was fooling around while on the job. I just could not have that nonsense going on here."

"What was her name?" Basil asked, watching Loveur twitch further.

"Who?"

"The lady caller? From the costume department?" The tone in Basil's voice sounded puzzled. Even I was starting to smell a rat, and it wasn't from the wax figure of Ratigan, either!

"I don't remember, exactly," he replied, having Basil squint his eyes further. "All I knew is I had to fire them both."

My eyes widened. "You fired your own brother?"

"Well, he was never on my staff to begin with," Loveur said to the floor. "I had him turn in his key and I told him to keep out of my museum. We got into a quick fight before he left. The devil scratched at my face, one that required stitches." He briefly showed us the faint scar near his left eye. "After that, he disappeared. I have not seen him in weeks."

"Is there a security guard I can speak to, specifically the one who's here after closing?" Basil asked.

"We don't have a security guard," Mr. Loveur said, making us stare in confusion. "Each time we hire someone to watch over the museum at night, they've mysteriously disappeared!" Basil cupped his chin and thought for a moment. "The strange thing is, nothing gets stolen. The books and money count have remained the same. Whoever is doing this only seems to want to cause trouble for us, or extra work at the disaster they've made. I thought it was former workers that I've had to let go due to being drunk and lazy, but if they had some sort of vendetta against us, they would be doing far worse than this."

Basil tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Why have you not alerted the police of these incidents?"

"Why?" Mr. Loveur's eyes widened. "Why do you think, detective? I did not want to cause a commotion! Such news reaching the papers would ruin my business!"

Basil nodded once. He allowed those words to settle within while I was growing angry with this curator. Loveur did not want to cause a commotion? For a mouse to care more about his precious reputation than his own workers was a very unsettling thing to hear. Moving toward the door told me that Basil was preparing to leave, and I was more than ready to follow behind.

"I would like another look around in your gallery."

"If you don't mind, that is," I added affably. Basil still shot me a mild glare.

"Not at all," Mr. Loveur led us out of the back rooms and through a door that took us straight into the main gallery where wax figures could be seen in every corner. It was near closing time and some of the guests were still walking around and commenting to the figures. At one point, Mr. Loveur left our side unannounced. I still wanted to know why he was so visibly shaken after Basil requested to enter his office, but I had to be patient in receiving such answers. My attention turned back to my friend examining each figure and the costumes they wore.

"You're on to something, aren't you, Basil?"

"When am I not?" he stepped back from a display and said something I had been expecting to hear. "I have now officially viewed every female's costume in this entire museum. Not one of them have on an attire that contains a use for these blue sequins. I did, however, find some more next to this risen platform." The display looked like a theater stage that was in the process of being changed to something else. A sign was found next to the sequins with these words written in chalk: _The corps de ballet in formation for a backdrop, from the production of "S...n...ake"_. Someone erased the title with a few of the letters still showing.

"A production of Snake? I've never heard of a ballet like that before."

"It said Swan Lake before they erased it, Dawson," Basil replied. "See the spacing in the letters?"

"Are you sure?" I was given an annoyed look.

"Very sure, doctor."

"Well, if you hadn't rushed me, I wouldn't have left my reading glasses at home!" I ignored Basil rolling his eyes and repeating the word 'snake' with a scoff. Watching him put his magnifier in his coat pocket, I was reminded of another word I could not read on the crate without the use of a larger lens. "Basil, about that crate with the writing, in the back near the curator's office, what did it say?"

"The one word I caught was Hydrol. Now why they would have a crate containing such chemicals, well, I am certain to find out...soon..." His voice drifted in a way that told me something, or rather someone, caught his attention. A pair of mice I instantly recognized gleefully waved to us. I could hear a groan of regret yet his face revealed the exact opposite.

"Mr. Basil, Dr. Dawson!" one of the mice exclaimed as they shuffled over to us.

"Ah, if it isn't our neighbors, the Proudfoots!" Basil attempted a friendly grin.

"What a pleasant surprise!" Mr. Proudfoot said as he and his wife approached us. As Basil stated, the couple, along with their twin daughters Angela and Agatha, were neighbors of ours. I had only met them on a few rare occasions, but I knew they were good mice who never bothered anyone. "How are you two doing this days?"

"Doing quite well, thank you," Basil put his hands behind his back and nodded to Mrs. Proudfoot. "Ma'am."

"Hello, Mr. Basil," Mrs. Proudfoot smiled warmly. "Have you had the chance to tour this museum? It is quite a show! The figures look so real, almost life-like!"

"You must see the Chamber of Horrors," Mr. Proudfoot cut in. "It frightens the bravest of heart. Our daughters considered that room their least favorite."

Basil and I only nodded, bringing on an awkward few seconds of silence. I could see in his expression that he could care less what the young girls liked or disliked. Their absence from their parent's side, however, did cause a bit of a concern to us both. I finally asked, "Speaking of which, where are those twins of yours?"

"We were hoping they'd meet us in here, but they've scampered off on us!" Mrs. Proudfoot said in a tone of worry. "Have either of you seen them?"

I regretted shaking my head. "No, miss, I'm afraid we have not."

"Oh, dear, I hope they haven't gone far," Mrs. Proudfoot said, her eyes now turning to every corner of the room. As we talked, I noticed an employee approach with a set of keys in hand. Basil also saw this mouse and stared suspiciously at him.

"Fake," he muttered next to my ear.

"What?"

"Shhh..."

"Folks, the museum is closing," the employee said, facing Basil next. "Are you Mr. Basil?" Receiving a mere nod, he added, "Mr. Loveur wishes to speak with you. He's waiting in the back. If you would kindly follow me."

Mrs. Proudfoot reached out to the employee. "Sir, wait, our children, we can't find them-"

"No worries, miss," the employee said calmly. "We've already cleared the other rooms of guests. I'm sure they're waiting for you outside the main gate." Mrs. Proudfoot looked to her husband and sighed heavily. Both nodded and walked out of the room toward the exit. "This way, Mr. Basil." The employee started to leave and I soon followed, noting he put a hand up to stop me. "Sorry, sir, he only wishes to see Mr. Basil; no one else."

"Er, but..."

"Go with the Proudfoots, Dawson," Basil said loudly before whispering to where I could only hear him, "and then go get the police..."

I did not like the fact that I was leaving my friend alone with these hoodlums. If he knew what he was doing, I had to let him go. That still did not change the fact that I was going to worry about him for several long hours. The next I saw of him was at a time I least expected: saving his own life!

* * *

End of Chapter 2. Notes:

Mary Pearcey is a real life convicted murderer of her lover's wife and child. Due to all the blood they found in her home, she insisted she was just killing mice. I came across her name after discovering she had a wax figure in Madame Tussaud's during the 1890's. Ironically, she murdered the mother and child on October 24, 1890, the same month and day I chose for the events of this story. It seemed like it would make for a fitting display of her foot stepping on mice for the Chamber of Horrors room. It also helped to show an example of the mechanical features.

While thinking of random names for the minor characters, Henry, Loveur's younger brother, was inspired by the character of Henry Jarrod from the 1953 version of "The House of Wax." He was played by Vincent Price.

Adding in Flaversham as an outside help to make the wax figures robotic came up years later when continuing to mess around with the plot of the story. The idea of a wax figure coming to life like an animatronic made it feel so much more creepier, like when Flaversham made the robot Queen Moustoria. There was also a minor nod to her character. Basil says, "How extraordinary..." when watching Pearcey's mechanical foot move. The queen uttered the same two words when she stared at the robotic version of herself.

The Proudfoots are neighbors to Basil and Dawson from the first Eve Titus book, "Basil of Baker Street." In the book, the twin daughters, Angela and Agatha, were kidnapped and used as ransom by a trio of mice called the Terrible Three. They wanted to take over Holmestead (the community of mice under Holmes' floorboards) and use it as their hideout.


	3. Chapter 3

Basil of Baker Street and the Rogues of Madame Mussauds  
Chapter 3

Basil -

I cannot describe what precisely raced through my thoughts as I watched my friend and colleague depart from the museum. It was uncertain if or when I would ever see him (and those neighbors of ours) again. There was no turning back now. Someone concocted a vile scheme, and I was bound to find out who exactly it was. Once the crowds departed, I knew this would be a night I would never forget. The mouse I had been following came to a halt near a door I had not seen before and instructed me to enter it first. I stood my ground and decided to press him for answers.

"Would you mind telling me what this is all about?" The unknown escort was obviously caught off guard and shifted a nervous foot left to right. His mouth twitched as if he were unsure how to respond. The more he held his tongue, the thinner my patience grew.

"What seems to be the problem?" I heard a second worker inquire as he emerged from the door. I growled under my breath. Outnumbered two to one; what splendid luck! This chap was also much taller in height, built like a brick house and possessing a scowl that meant he was in no mood for nonsense.

"Mr. Loveur wants to have a word with this snooper and he is causing trouble."

Trouble? How is a mere question trouble?

"Is that so?"

Two mice closing in was an instant alert that I was seconds away from an inevitable confrontation. Make that two point five seconds to be exact. The first mouse made a grab for my shoulders in an attempt to pin me down. Not if I could help it. I wiggled out of his grasp and turned to meet his friend. He did not have time to react to a right hook coming in contact with his face. A fast sucker punch did nothing but further anger him. The first assailant tried to grab my arms again; I was more than prepared to fight him with a swift kick below the waist.

It was now my cue to exit the scene, but my chances of an escape were nil at the sight of a bolted entrance. My heart started to pound fiercely as I sprinted through another entry and onward to a room filled with more figures. I could hear the pursuer's footfalls coming closer and chose to increase my own pace. I proceeded onward to another room and made a left at a sharp curve. All of a sudden, my world went black.

_Great,_ I thought to myself, glancing up to see the lights suddenly shut themselves off, leaving me in semidarkness.

* * *

Not many could say that they have been locked in a capacious museum with glass eyes watching their every move. I felt as if I were a laboratory mouse on an endless quest to find cheese. It was a pity Dawson could not be here to enjoy this risky romp, but one of us had to inform the police that foul play was afoot. To make matters worse, two blackguards were trailing my tail. I could tell when they were coming close by the light of their lanterns and the sound of their footsteps.

Each room I entered was deathly still as well as full of those ghastly wax figures Mrs. Proudfoot praised over. Their forms looked hideous in the darkness; almost like large masses ready to move at any given moment. The sound of someone treading alerted my ears once more. I jumped off the aisle and hid amongst a group of warriors from the medieval era. Backing against one particular suit of armor, I turned to look down and read its name plate: Sir Harold Basil of Yorkshire? What a coincidence; I was next to a wax creation of one of my ancestors!

Sir Harold stood proud as a knight in full garb, holding a morning star in a traditional striking manner. I knew how to fence with enemies, not club them, but the thought still crossed my mind to take and use this weapon. Unfortunately, it was much like removing the sword of Excalibur in the anvil, and I was far from being King Arthur. I would have to cut off his entire wax hand in order to use it. I eventually surrendered, knowing I did not have the time nor the tools to perform such an appendectomy.

On the other side of the aisle was a set of figures with hooded cloaks and full masks. They appeared as some monks from a monastery. As I looked around, I thought I saw one of the monks turn its head in my direction. I whipped back to look, seeing the figure facing forward again. Did that head move, or was it just my imagination?

The wandering individual finally entered the room I was in and paused a few feet from where I stood. He did not carry a lantern and his footing was much lighter in sound than of those scoundrels. I squinted in the dark and tried not to gasp too loud when I saw who owned those feathery patters.

"Agatha? Where are you, Agatha?"

It was Angela, one of the Proudfoot twins! I could not believe what I was seeing. The game had opened up to new players; two young and innocent ones at that.

"Agatha?" she whispered once more. "Are you in here?"

"Check this room again," a distant voice commanded and Angela gasped, scampering off to hide behind a wax display. Calling out to her would have been an unwise decision. The thought of a voice coming from some lifeless object would scare anyone, especially a child. I held in my breath as soon as I saw flickers of light come bobbing through the sea of shadows.

I sighed heavily at the sight of two extra hunters seeking out these children. All four carried lanterns and shone them in every direction, luckily avoiding the view of the wax figures Angela and I hid behind. I was certain she was on the verge to start screaming, but like a good girl, she remained still until they cleared out of the room. I watched her climb down off the display and continue the search for her lost sibling. I moved away from my own hiding place and shifted a foot more loudly than I intended. Angela froze in her spot.

"Who's there?"

It was now or never. In a swift move, I approached from behind and placed a hand over her mouth. As I predicted, she tried to scream and break free of my grasp.

"Shhhh! Angela, it's me, Detective Basil!" I said as I lowered myself on one knee and turned to face her.

"M-Mr. B-Basil!" she stammered a soft cry and reached out to embrace my shoulders. I gulped and almost removed her arms, but due to our current situation, I permitted the physical contact. The twins were notorious for such sentiments. It seemed as though I still had a lot to learn about children and the reasoning behind their clinging ways.

"Yes, it's me," I said, reluctantly tapping her back and inwardly relieved she pulled away first.

"W-what are you doing here- h-how did you-"

"Never you mind any of that. Come on, I've got to get you out of here." Without another word, I took one of her hands and jogged off in the opposite direction of the room. The museum was a maddening maze of unlimited obscurities, and now with children involved, I could only hope I could get us all out of this place. I picked up my speed and entered a new room, the size just as immense as the last.

"Can't find Aggie, Mr. Basil." What was that? I looked all around until I felt a brush of something against my side. Oh, yes. I was a temporary chaperon. The girl's voice was barely audible, and with my thoughts racing like a horse in the Epsom Derby, I almost did not catch her words.

Sighing, I lightly told her, "She has to be around here somewhere, possibly in hiding. Where did you last see her?"

"In the Royal Chamber."

I halted abruptly to view our current location. It could not have been far when I had seen such a room not too long ago. Yet, it meant backtracking through the same room we ran from the pursuing employees. I tried another route to circle around, but it ended up taking us through the Chamber of Horrors. This dungeon of a room was dark and cold with the figures placed in many torture devices. At the entrance, Angela backed away from the sight of a lady mouse with her neck in a noose, followed by another with its head severed from the guillotine.

"There's another exit through this room. Come on-"

"I don't want to go in there."

There was definitely no reason to study mind reading now. Somehow I knew she was going to say that as well as root herself firmly to the floor. Instead of allowing my impatience to take over, I went with the obvious statement: "We really do not have a choice, my dear."

"I know, but..." but she did not need to finish her sentence. She was scared, and rightfully so. Despite their faux forms, the very sight of their predicaments would frighten any young child. Carrying her through the room became my only solution, and I wasted no time uprooting that stubborn tree stump. "Mr. Basil, wait! I'm scared-"

"Close your eyes and don't look at them!"

Angela instantly turned her head toward my collar bone as I ran past one macabre scene after another. None of what I saw disturbed me in the least. A little girl, however, would have nightmares for weeks. As I reached the end of the room, my eyes met with a very familiar fiend.

"No...it can't be..."

The Napoleon of crime stood off to the side of the exit door, staring at us both with much hatred and anger. I knew his figure was still under massive repairs, ergo, the sight of him showcased in a gallery room arose many questions. I backed away slowly, waiting for one of his mechanical parts to move, but nothing happened. By then Angela lifted her head and looked to see why I stopped. She too made a low gasp and stared at the sewer rat before us.

"It's Ratigan!" she hissed in my ear. "He-he isn't real, right?"

"Of course he's not...I..." I just could not get over the incredible detail! I approached closer, but with some caution, and sized up the full creation. I could now get a better look without the sheet. It was a definite likeness to the late genius, straight down to his exact clothing. If I was not mistaken, it was the same dress suit he wore the night he fell from the clock tower. The more I looked at him, the more I thought he was coming to life.

"It blinked at us, Mr. Basil," Angela said, words I did not wish to hear. "I saw him blink."

"It's your imagination, darling, it's playing tricks on you." The next thing we heard was a low, distinctive growl. I looked down at Angela. "Please tell me that was your stomach?" Before either of us could react, the figure thrust both hands outward at my coat. The mechanical fingers curled and gripped the fabric. Angela screamed and scrambled out of my arms, running for the exit. Time stood still for that brief moment; I could only look into the hateful eyes of my deceased enemy. And then, a voice spoke that I could not tell if it was real or it was coming from inside my head:

"There's no escape this time, Basil!"

Punching and clawing were my two desperate defenses; I was far too stunned for rational thinking. The more I scratched at its face, the more my fingernails filled with clumps of wax. But then, the wax turned to a red liquid with that metallic odor I inhaled many times before.

_Blood..._

With a shout, I wheeled backwards and pulled myself free to stare at what I had done. I managed to strip away layers of the wax and release another well-known smell. It was of a product mainly used to prevent decomposing of dead tissue. Hydrol. Formaldehyde. Embalming fluid.

"Professor Padraic Ratigan...as I live and breathe..."

For once, I wish I was incorrect about my deduction. It was his own body. They used his actual _corpse_ to create his wax figure! It was a mechanical figure to be exact, and it was achieved with the help of Flaversham, the same toymaker forced to create a robot version of our beloved queen. If only he had known what his skills were being used for. If only!

The next few minutes were too difficult to recollect after I felt an abundance of pain to the back of my head. I cradled my skull and fell to my knees, preparing myself for whomever was moving in to commit the final deed. Nothing, not even my own life, mattered to me at that point. The most I hoped for is those two children getting out safely and unharmed.

* * *

Dawson-

Although every Londoner was used to bad weather, the downpour did not make our trek to find an official mouse any easier. Someone I considered more family than friend was in grave danger, and I had to help him or die trying. The Proudfoots had yet to reunite with their twin daughters, and with the hour growing later, they knew something terrible must have happened to them. I tried to assure the worried parents they were fine, but not even I could be so sure of that.

My mind was filled to capacity on the concern that I may never see Basil alive again. In this situation, on the other hand, there was no room to fret over what to do. Action needed to be taken, and that is exactly what we did. The three of us wasted no time to report the unusual activity at the museum. I did not care if Mr. Loveur's career was at stake. With the involvement of children in the picture, we could not keep such information to ourselves.

At almost half past eight in the evening, we hurried along the rain-filled streets to find the nearest officer, locating one at the cross street of Marylebone Road and Allsop Place. He listened to every breathless word I uttered before rounding up his team to return to the museum. Once I told him Detective Basil of Baker Street was involved, one of the officers announced he would contact Scotland Yard immediately. I watched the brave mouse sprint over deep puddles and run to a police signal box.

"Are there any others in the museum with the detective?" inquired the first officer we alerted.

"Yes, we think our twin daughters are there," Mr. Proudfoot said, his voice cracking. "We have not seen them since we left the museum."

The officer looked to me next and asked, "Is there anything else we need to know?"

"Indeed," I replied. "I fear we are dealing with an underground operation. Rogues from Ratigan's gang have come up with some sort of plot to rid of Basil for good."

As we made our way back to the museum, I filled in the rest of whatever information I could provide to the officers. That was when I learned of something that both shocked and puzzled me. On the night that Basil and Ratigan fought on the clock tower, only one survived. I knew which one that was, but what I did not know was that the latter had gone missing. One of the officers said something that nearly caused me to faint:

"They never found his body."

In all my years as a practical mouse did I not expect to hear such words. These were professionals; they combed the entire area and found no remains. Not even a hint of fabric from the professor's clothing or trail of blood could be located near the grounds of the tower. I remained muddled while Basil chose to move forward with his many cases to come. Little did I know he secretly continued to do some investigating to this missing corpse mystery on his own.

At the entrance to the museum, we found ourselves stuck with not only a secure bolt, but a combination of numbers none of us knew. Between Basil and myself, I am considered the one with the calmest demeanor. Yet here I was, faced with a large, steel door, dividing me from getting to and saving a dear friend. It took seconds for the frustration to expose itself.

"No! This cannot stop us now! We have to get in there!" I was shouting and trying to force my way inside. The Proudfoots even looked shocked watching a side of me they had never seen before become unleashed. I kicked at the door, pounded balled fists, and was ready to find an object to destroy the lid of the combination when I heard a voice call out to us.

"Hey! You there! Stop!" It was the two lady mice Basil and I had spoken to earlier. The one I remembered as Jillian approached me first with the appearance of much concern and fright. "I just knew you would come back!"

"What are you doing here, Miss...ah..Jillian-ah-"

"Loveur. Jillian Loveur," she told me with exasperation in her voice.

"Loveur? The curator is your _husband_?" I frowned, turning to look at the police and the Proudfoots for answers. They were just as stumped as I was. "I don't understand-"

"There is no time to explain! Your detective friend is in trouble, but not even a key can get us through these doors," Mrs. Loveur gestured to the handles. "They are securely locked with a combination only the administrators know. Please, come with me!"

I was not sure if we were being duped by these ladies or not. All that concerned me was getting inside the museum, and without further haste!

* * *

End of Chapter 3. Notes:

The wax figure of Sir Harold Basil, a supposed ancestor of Basil's from the medieval era, is a nod to Barrie Ingham's real life father: Harold Ellis Stead Ingham, born in Halifax, Yorkshire, England.

The concept of having Angela Proudfoot roam around a closed and darkened museum was inspired by the book, "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler" by E. L. Konigsburg.

With the mouse world very similar to the human world, it's expected for the Chamber of Horrors room to have such displays as the gallows and the guillotine.

This chapter was it! The one I feared would cause the pitchforks to come out! Ratigan's real life body cased in wax was inspired by the 1953 movie, "House of Wax," starring Vincent Price. The curator wanted revenge on those who destroyed his museum, so he compiled a gang of thugs to rob graves and use the bodies to make his wax figures. After watching the movie, the idea fascinated me ever since, and I wanted to come up with some sort of creepy plot of what happened to Ratigan's remains. Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum became the base of my story's setting, but I still needed to tie in an explanation of how they obtained the body and why Basil was lured in to the scheme.

Padraic is Ratigan's first name, mentioned in the original Basil of Baker Street books by Eve Titus.

The mouse officer contacts Scotland Yard on a Glasgow police box. I read that these were available in 1894. I couldn't find information on a map if such a box existed at the location of Marylebone Road, but I'm pretty sure such devices were available within heavy areas of public traffic. 


	4. Chapter 4

Basil of Baker Street and the Rogues of Madame Mussaud's  
Chapter 4

Basil-

The impact from the truncheon left me unconscious for a good fifteen to twenty minutes. The bad news, however, was what happened within the time frame I was not attentive. After viewing my current predicament, things certainly went from bad to worse. As my conscience returned to its usual state, I took note of that sensation I have had before of stationary arm and leg movement. That is to say, I was being tied down to a rather uncomfortable wooden bench. A torture device, no doubt. Blinking my eyes open, I stared up at my captor donning a black cloak and a full executioner's mask.

"Well, now, this is cozy, but isn't it tradition to get a last request?" As expected, no reply.

"Got 'im secure? Make those ropes good n' tight, chump!" I overheard someone talking in a dark corner of the room. Although he wore an identical cloak and mask, I instantly recognized that scruffy and inarticulate voice. It was that waspish worker, Charles Brunswick. Meanwhile, his associate, obviously Leonard, handled the ropes around my wrists and ankles.

"What do you think of our new toy?" he asked, gesturing to the contraption I was tied to. "We got this idea from some human named Poe. Tussaud's has a display, so we thought we'd give it a try. Needed a victim-er, volunteer, and we picked ya...seein' as you's was just _lyin'_ around in the gallery..." Both of them chuckled, and well, I could not disappoint. I joined in with my own forced snicker.

"Ha ha ha, I am just _so_ happy to oblige." I dripped heavily on the sarcasm.

"Now, to give this display a test run. Stand back, Leonard!" Charles threw the switch and my ears perked up to the sound of something quietly swishing from left to right. I turned to look up to see a faint glisten of something near the ceiling. With every swish it made, the object slowly moved lower toward my middle.

_Uh-huh...a pendulum...with a scythe...oh, drat..._

I suddenly had a wonderful idea come to mind: get off of this bench, and fast! Flat on my back, I struggled against the irritable twine ropes and felt my heartbeat accelerate at a record speed. I looked up again and became transfixed by the blade. What an amazing work of art; how lucky I was to be the chosen one to have my blood splattered all over its crescent-shaped steel!

"Help! Mr. Basil! Help me!"

I craned my neck as far as it would go; a child's head was poking out of a wood box several inches off the ground. Above her head was the spout to a long tube that connected to a vat of hot wax. Angela Proudfoot screamed and shook her arms, causing a rattling noise. She too had her wrists confined, but instead of ropes, they were of a set of shackles. She looked to me in a pleading gaze as if I was the only one who could save her. The unfortunate truth was that I happened to be the only one who _could_!

"Double drat..."

"Check the temperature on that vat," Charles mildly ordered to Leonard.

"Let her go! She's just a child!" I spat, finding it difficult to shout in my position.

"Yeh, a child who knows too much info, just as you do, 'tective," Charles growled and shouted: "Leonard, the temperature!"

"Still needs to heat up, mate," Leonard muttered, eyeing the gauge on the side of the vat. A sudden bang in the corner of the room got both of their attention. It sounded as though an object was thrown and crashed against the wall. All three of us looked around, unable to find who or what caused the commotion. "What was that? I thought we were alone in here?"

"We are," he replied, moving away from the wall. I shook my head at the sight of him taking out a pistol and casually waving it around. Both started a search around the room before catching sight of the main door swinging with a slow creak. Someone had come in, threw something at random, and ran back outside. "Someone's here!" The two workers quickly climbed a staircase and disappeared through the door. That allowed me a chance to work on loosening the ropes. Damn that Leonard; he triple-knotted them!

"Mr. Basil?" I frowned to Angela's voice uttering much closer to the bench. Rolling my head over and looking downward, my eyes met with a pair of blue, frightened ones. The second Proudfoot twin had managed to find her way into this basement area through a small hole in the wall!

"Agatha! You're certainly a sight for sore eyes!"

"I'm sorry...I was hiding, I got scared-"

"Understood, but right now, your sister and I are in a bit of bind. You're the only one who can get us out of our traps. Can you do that for me?" A silent nod was enough affirmation. "That's a good girl. Now, hurry!" As she moved, the pendulum shifted across us, sending her completely sprawled to the floor. Hearing faint sniffles, I tried not to release too loud of an annoyed grunt.

"Agatha, please! This is not the time nor the place for waterworks!"

"That blade almost got me! It's coming closer-"

"I know it is," I said, as if I needed reminding its intention was to separate my upper and lower half. "Keep your head as low as possible, and don't look up. Just get these ropes off before-" Agatha gasped and crouched lower, almost squeezing herself under the bench. "What is it, dear? Agatha?" I paused in my breathing to hear noises above us. "Someone's coming. Stay down, and stay out of sight." Agatha crawled down toward my ankles and carefully worked on the ropes. My heart pounded faster at the sound of the door slowly creaking open.

I distinctively heard a soft movement of footsteps. Standing in the doorway was a mouse dressed all in black with a long hooded cloak. Only my eyes could tell me the new form that entered the room, yet they were deceived by a black mask obscuring their features. Was it Leonard again?

"Hello there," I managed to say. "Have you come back to join the party?"

There was no response except for the stairs groaning to every step they made to the lower level. Suddenly, the pendulum stopped moving down and the swishing came to a halt inches above my abdomen. The new mouse had turned off the switch on the wall. One minute more and I would have looked like a magician's act gone wrong of a volunteer sawed in half!

Reaching my side next, I looked over to see them carrying a crowbar. They were far from having a masculine figure. Female, no denying it. I watched her kneel to the floor and start untying the rope around one of my wrists. There was a botanic aroma on her arms, instantly telling me this was someone unexpected who had come to my aid.

"Might I have a name to my rescuer?"

"Not now, detective," she replied. A soft yet sultry voice. Sings a lot from the sound of it. I inhaled her arms again. There was a mixture of something else besides botany...cigarette ash? Liquor?

"Hmm...you know, it is a well-known fact that showgirls...who perform in seedy pubs...often apply oils to their fur to smell of flowers and other nice aromas...to _mask_ the odor of tobacco and alcohol..."

The lady mouse huffed as if I had said something offensive. Removing the mask, I looked up to a face with fluffed white fur and almond-shaped blue eyes. I instantly recognized her the night Dawson and I were looking for Fidget at that pub back in June. As I deduced: it was the showgirl who _took off her blues_ for her audience of cheering drunks.

"Does nothing ever escape you?" she asked hotly.

"Well, if it wasn't for you, I probably wouldn't have escaped that swinging blade!" I added a wink.

"Please, detective, this is no time for jokes," the showgirl said, continuing to untie my binds. Who was joking? I was serious! "You and those children are in terrible danger. I've got to get you out of here before they make wax figures out of all of you!"

"They've already used Ratigan's real body to make a wax figure," I whispered back, waiting to see a reaction. She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

"I know," she said, almost tearfully. "Those two sculptors kept coming around my pub, asking questions about the professor. He has been dead all this time, but not too many knew this information for sure. The thugs that dressed as royal guards from Buckingham Palace took his remains from the clock tower. They tried to revive him, but it was no use."

I nodded slowly. "So, they kept his body-"

"Preserved, yes. They've kept him that way for months, something about trying to do a sort of...resurrection..." the showgirl finished the rope and slid around the bench to work on my left wrist, all the while I was taking each word she was saying and processing it in my head. Looking back down to her, I caught her pulling back the cloak and presenting a folded note. "Charles sent this letter to me, saying he and his fellow worker had completed the professor's wax figure." I went to take it with my free hand, but she quickly returned it to her dress pocket. "He seemed real excited."

"It's a high achievement, who wouldn't be excited?" I shrugged, watching which pocket she put it in.

The showgirl nodded before continuing. "Anyway, detective, I was curious to see the figure for myself, so I arrived in the afternoon. I was taken to the workshop and shown the mechanical features, but something did not seem right the more I kept looking at him. He seemed too _real_ to be wax. They both escorted me back into the gallery room, and I overheard one of them whisper, 'Do you think she suspected it was really him?' That confirmed my doubts. They're all in on it, including the owner of this museum. He doesn't care where his workers get their materials as long as they make money for him."

"So, you're rescuing me from this trap because-"

"I need your help. I know how you work, detective," she replied, sighing a bit to the difficulty of untying the triple knot, courtesy of Leonard. "I read all about you in the papers. You have put many criminals behind bars or sent them directly to death row. After I discovered what those workers had done to the professor's body, I was furious. I wanted justice, to pay for what they had done, but I couldn't very well do it...alone." I briefly glanced down to the crowbar again, then back to her. She got the connection and softly stated, "I've only knocked them out to get to you down here."

"Whether you helped me out of this trap or not was never going to change the outcome of going after these rogues," I flatly said. "They committed a heinous crime. Stealing a corpse to use and make a profit is illegal, therefore, they can be prosecuted and sent to jail, including their curator."

Her eyes glistened as she asked, "You'll do it, then? You'll have them arrested?"

"But, of course! I had planned to do so from the very start-" I did not expect this emotional creature to thank me so abruptly, not to mention reaching over and planting a big kiss on my cheek! I am quite certain my expression fully told her I was beyond stunned. The showgirl pulled back, uttered a minor apology, and continued removing that piece of rope around my wrist. "Yes, well...um...you're welcome..."

"Who are you?" I looked down at my feet, once again forgetting there were children present. Agatha sat and stared with bewilderment to the new arrival.

"Just someone trying to help," the showgirl replied with a nervous smile.

"Are you Mr. Basil's girlfriend?" Agatha boldly said, receiving a chuckle from her and me an appropriate roll to the eyes.

"Agatha, are you afraid of heights?" Shaking her head no, I further stated, "Your sister needs your help in that box high up there. Do you think you can go get her down for us?" Agatha immediately obeyed and ran over to the ladder to start climbing. I looked to the showgirl again and said, "By the way, I was told by one of those fake employees that the curator himself was here. Did you happen to see him-"

_*BANG*_

The main door flung wide open and crashed loudly against the wall. Agatha screamed and dropped to the floor, hiding behind the ladder. The showgirl and I both gasped at the sight of a new mouse entering the room. The chosen attire was also black, but he had no need to cover his face. Benjamin Loveur came down the stairs with a pistol identical to Charles' aimed right at us. I groaned and glanced to the showgirl.

"Speak of the devil."

"I thought I saw that little minx come in here," he said, glaring at the showgirl. "So, you know about our little secret? Looks as though you caught me red-handed!"

"And it looks as though two more workers will be discharged from your payroll," I retorted.

"They had it coming to them. Using dead bodies for figures was not something I ever agreed to."

"That's not what I heard," I said, briefly eyeing the showgirl.

Loveur tisked lightly. "She's filling your head with lies, detective. Who are you going to believe? Me, someone you've known for years, or some floozy from a seaside dive?" Loveur decided not to wait for an answer and pointed the gun right at her head. "Hands up, vamp! Get away from him! Now!" The showgirl almost lifted her hands, but I quickly rolled off the wooden bench and threw her to the ground. The blade from the pendulum was so close to us by then, she would have cut herself if she had done as she was told. Loveur reacted and took a step back, still aiming that confounded weapon at us.

"Always playing the hero, detective?"

"Someone has to when someone always plays the villain," I sneered back.

"I really did admire our friendship; that wasn't a lie," Loveur said, clicking the gun's hammer and preparing to pull the trigger. "Such a pity it has to end here-"

"Don't shoot Mr. Basil!" Loveur whipped around and fired at Agatha.

"NO!" The showgirl and I both shouted. The bullet fortunately bounced off a ladder rung and ricocheted against the wall. Agatha scampered off to hide behind a table with wax body parts. I stared wide-eyed and mouth gaped. He shot at her. Benjamin Loveur had the _audacity_ to aim and shoot at a defenseless little girl. My anger had no bounds. With an unholy roar I usually reserved for the lowest scum of the earth, I lunged at his mid section and knocked him to the ground, sending the gun off in some direction. The showgirl stole this chance to crawl away from the pendulum trap and get to the fallen weapon.

"Oh no, you don't!" Loveur shouted beneath me. Within our tangled struggle, he pulled out a small remote control from his breast pocket and pushed a button. The shadows started to move as two mechanical wax figures slid out on wheels, almost knocking over the young dancer. The showgirl dodged one figure, but the second sent her down to the floor. I quickly rolled off Loveur and rose up to meet two bulging eyes of a robot.

"Seriously, Flaversham, you need to get a job at a theme park!"

In the corner of my eye, I caught Loveur reaching for the gun and turning to aim it at me. I found the safety of a large set of crates and used that as my shield. Loveur fired, this time at the crates, causing a hole in the side. Although small, the hole was big enough to allow a brown, syrupy liquid to spill. It was the Hydrol chemical leaking all over the floor. One spark upon that dark, flammable mass and we were all going to meet our maker!

"Stop! Cease your fire!" I tried to call out from behind the crates, but another bullet told me he was not going to see reason. I looked up at the top crates and quickly pushed them over onto him. Able to react fast enough, the crates only fell to the ground, lacking what I intended to do. The showgirl, meanwhile, chose to take down Loveur next. I never did find the chance to commend her bravery!

Loveur swiftly turned the tables by gripping both of her hands. The showgirl fought with her attacker, whom was undoubtedly stronger in comparison, as he continued to hold both of her arms behind her back. Being a dancer on stage and constantly grabbed by the patrons, I was glad to see that she was trained in a bit of self defense. I looked just in time to witness her elbowing him in the chest, allowing her a chance to turn around and finish him off: Solar-plexus, instep, nose, and finally the groin. I knew that girl could _sing_ after all as I watched the poor yet demented curator go down for the count! I looked down to him, then up at her.

"Not bad, for a-"

"Don't say it, or you'll be spitting teeth, detective!" the showgirl warned with a clenched jaw and raised fist.

"Whatever." Some women were just too sensitive!

"Mr. Basil, help! Please!" Angela called out from her perch. Turning my attention back to the twins, I ran to see what became of Agatha. Seeing her visibly shaken, I offered to climb the ladder and rescue her sister. The spout above her head was open and ready to pour the hot wax into the box. As I started to climb, I heard another bang and felt a piercing sting in my right leg. Loveur, still holding the gun, fired it at me.

I heard the showgirl scream as I felt myself fall to the ground. The mad mouse prepared himself for another one on one battle. I struggled to reach the box holding Angela once more, but I only made it to the third rung. Loveur jumped for my middle and forced me back down. Both children shrieked as I found my own self quickly losing air. He was choking me! I gasped and kicked with my good leg, sending him backwards, yet not far enough for me to fully escape his clutches. The Hydrol chemical was slowly coming towards us as well as creating a carpet upon nearly a quarter of the floor. Loveur threw himself at me again, landing harshly upon my back and throwing me down on my stomach.

"It ends here, Basil. If I have to die along with you, then so be it!"

A sudden 'clank!' sound appeared, and his body went limp over mine. I shoved him off and rolled myself with some difficulty to try and stand up. I knew I could have taken him on my own, but after looking over the showgirl's harsh features and the crowbar gripped in both hands, I made the wise choice to nod and grin instead.

"Um...thanks!"

The air in the room was starting to turn deadly from the fumes in the Hydrol chemical. Despite the soreness in my leg, I climbed the ladder to reach Angela once and for all. Her fur and clothing were drenched from the hot temperatures of the room. Staring listlessly up at me, she uttered a feeble question I could not blame her to ask:

"Mr. Basil...what took you so long?"

"I had some prior engagements, nothing too trivial," I calmly replied as I removed her shackles and lifted her weakened form into my arms. "I've got you, little one..."

To save an innocent often leaves one feeling proud of themselves. As soon as I stepped off the last ladder rung and another pain signal transferred to the brain, I lost that wonderful moment of elation. Angela unfastened herself from my grasp to turn and pull me in an upright position. Either she was a lot stronger than I realized, or Mrs. Judson had every right to call me an emaciated bag of bones.

Agatha rushed over next and held me up on the other side. "You're hurt!"

"Nothing a bit of surgery won't fix, my dear." Seeing her bottom lip start to tremble, I cupped my hand under her chin. "I'll be all right. If it wasn't for you and that showgirl, I would be pushing up daisies in two different coffins!" The Rat Trap dancer approached us next, pausing to look over the situation.

"Thank you for helping us," Agatha blurted out unexpectedly.

"Your assistance was quite appreciative, miss," I said, feeling my own smile lift. "Now, about getting this double-crosser relocated..."

The four of us worked as a team to find some sort of transport device to carry the unconscious curator up the stairs and out of the toxic room. I refused to listen to three females telling me to rest my injured leg when there was work to be done. Angela found and pushed over a large trolley containing an assortment of brushes, paint cans, and other oddities to bring the wax figures a realistic complexion. She and her sister removed the objects as I assisted the showgirl in lifting my so-called friend onto the trolley. By the time we reached the center of the steps, my leg had lost a considerable amount of blood. Gritting my teeth, I gave the trolley one last heave before I collapsed.

The last thing I saw before I momentarily blacked out was a view of the twins rolling the trolley up the final step and out the door. A scent of flowers filled my nostrils while a pair of hands gripped beneath my arms and pulled me off that middle step. My eyes briefly opened, enough to see a view of a black cloak and a dress pocket. Within minutes, we reached a dark and cool corridor connecting to the back workshop of the museum.

"This is where I leave you, detective," the showgirl whispered. "I don't want to be here when the police arrive. I'm not in trouble with them or anything, I just don't want to answer any-"

"Say no more," I cut her off. "Just go..." And go she did. She possibly meant she was _currently_ not in trouble with the police, but I was not in the mood for such specifics. Receiving a pair of children as temporary crutches, I smiled down to both of them as we proceeded to walk away from that basement and onward to find the museum's entrance. "We'll leave that bad mouse there for now. I doubt he'll be waking up anytime soon."

"Mr. Basil, who was that pretty lady?" Angela asked, and before I could give a reasonable answer, the crutch on the other side spoke up.

"That's his girlfriend," Agatha said with a giggle. I gave her a look of warning.

"Enough with the fibs, young lady!"

We eventually found our way through the corridor and out to the foyer. It certainly was a welcoming sight to see living, breathing mice for once. Dawson was the first I made eye contact with, and I could not help but smile at seeing him once more. The Proudfoots pushed themselves forward to reunite with their daughters as police officials searched for Loveur and his workers. There were no casualties. Charles and Leonard were found knocked out cold. Receiving the same type of injury earlier, I could sympathize with the size of the headache they will have when they wake up!

I had much to tell my dear friend, but for the moment, I found the nearest bench and rested upon it, taking the weight off my battered leg. Yet another wound to add to the list. I inhaled and exhaled, clutching a hand at my middle. My _intact_ middle, that is. Slipping a hand into my coat pocket next, I pulled out a folded note and, when no one was looking, read it to myself:

_Miss Kitty,_

_The boys an me from the mueseim are finnished with Rattigan's figure! Stop by and come see it! -Charles Brunswick_

"Charles, you really are one bad speller," I replied with a shake to the head.

The mystery behind who had it in for me was over. All that remained was answering questions and...of course...giving the mortal remains of Professor Ratigan a proper burial!

* * *

End of Chapter 4. Notes:

Basil being tied down to a pendulum was inspired by another Vincent Price film, _The Pit and the Pendulum_, originally written by Edgar Allan Poe. An assumption to why the torture device would be in the basement of the museum came about as a display in progress for the Chamber of Horrors room. This was a scene written years ago with the uncertainty of how to finish it.

I gave Agatha Proudfoot blue eyes, the same as the famous mystery writer, Agatha Christie. I don't think Eve Titus based Agatha Proudfoot on her, but it still felt like a nice little nod.

Miss Kitty knocking out everyone in the museum before coming to Basil's aid was inspired by the game, "Thief: The Dark Project." The player is forced to stick to the shadows to avoid direct combat as much as possible. When an NPC is in the way of an objective, the player can knock them out from behind with his Blackjack weapon, only making them unconscious. One hit and the NPC is out for the reminder of the level, allowing the player free reign of that area. This form of an attack is helpful when a higher level of difficulty has restrictions of killing anyone. Since I didn't want any casualties in this story, I stuck with just knocking the villains senseless.

An early draft was to have Miss Kitty as the one who typed up the letter to Basil from the curator's office. Since she was friends with Ratigan, she wanted revenge on him. The plan was she wanted the workers of the museum to kill him and use his body as a wax figure in a torture device. But then, I didn't want her to be the villain when she seems she could play a neutral part, wanting justice for the crimes committed, but doing no harm to the detective himself. That was when I changed it to workers who visited her pub and she gained the information that way.

Basil's line, "Seriously, Flaversham, you need to get a job at a theme park!" was a subtle nod to WDI (Walt Disney Imagineering) creating the animatronic figures for Disneyland's attraction, The Pirates of the Caribbean. Basil meant that Flaversham was such a genius, he was at the level of someone like a Disney Imagineer.

Solar-plexus, instep, nose, and groin, (S.I.N.G.) are the four movements women are taught in self-defense classes. I remember first hearing about it in the film, _Miss Congeniality_, so it was not something invented around the Victorian era. Still, with Miss Kitty being a singer and dealing with drunk mice all the time, I couldn't resist putting it in. I just didn't have Basil say that he had heard of such a technique before.

Agatha teasing Basil about Miss Kitty being his girlfriend was an inside joke about Disney loosely basing the Rat Trap showgirl on Relda, an opera singer from the Eve Titus books. Basil was captivated by her beauty and voice, sensing he did have strong feelings for her, but it never went further than that. Relda was based on Irene Adler from the Sherlock Holmes story, "A Scandal in Bohemia."


	5. Chapter 5

Basil of Baker Street and the Rogue of Madame Mussauds  
Chapter 5 (Epilogue)

Dawson-

One of my many downfalls is keeping a straight, neutral face. This is why, between Basil and myself, I would instantly lose at a game of poker. Jillian Loveur only took us a short distance to meet with her husband, whom was already heading out his front door. The moment I saw him, I failed at the restraint to hold back a gasp. Fortunately for me, no one heard it.

_Benjamin Loveur is her husband!_

"Impossible..." I frowned as the curator approached us, looking to each of us individually. "B-but, but I thought-"

"Darling, we need to postpone our plans and return to the museum," Jillian interrupted, taking her husband's arm. "It's your brother, he's there now, and I think he's going to do something terrible-"

"I knew it! I knew it was only a matter of time before he would snap!" Loveur growled angrily.

The curator pushed ahead of us, still adjusting his overcoat and hat, and dodging large rain puddles. I started to wonder why he was at home when Basil was supposed to meet him at the museum? On top of that, where was the scar on his cheek, the one he pointed out to us when he got into a fight with his brother? The more I was trying piece everything in my head, the more the blocks of confusion stacked up. Worry was another layer that had set in. I feared I would not get to my friend in time, nor find the Proudfoot twins for that matter!

We soon returned to the museum's entrance. Soaked and determined, we watched with anticipation as the curator paused and entered the code. Something was wrong. He tried entering a second time. Then, a third. We were denied access every time. He could not have forgotten the code; someone had altered it while he was away. But, who?

"Dash it all, the password has been changed!"

"Changed?" I asked, my heart sinking. "How could it have changed-"

"I don't know, but I can't get inside!" he sighed, frantically depressing each number a fourth time.

"No..." I whispered. "This cannot be happening..."

Loveur was just here; how could it not work? Was this really the curator? Was it all a ruse? Did my friend meet his fate once and for all? I could feel myself flushing with rage inside. I had completely lost all manner of a calm composure by then. Taking my umbrella and using it as a weapon, I turned into some sort of barbaric monster, whacking and thrusting at that wretched code box. An officer gripped my shoulder and pulled me back just as I heard the glorious sound of a latch clicking. The door unlocked!

"Dr. Dawson, remind me to never get on your bad side again!" Mr. Proudfoot muttered next to me.

All of us shoved our way inside and fanned out within the foyer. My eyes looked in every direction, ever corner, and then, there he was. In a far section of the main room was the detective and the Proudfoot twins sitting on benches. The twins immediately saw their parents and came rushing toward them as Basil chose to remain seated on the bench. He was slipping something into his coat pocket and rising off the bench as I came closer, just in time to catch him from falling over.

"Basil!" I exclaimed, helping him to keep a balance. Aside from his bloodied trouser leg, he looked chipper than a rich gent strolling through the park in May. "Are you all right? You have no idea how worried sick I was!"

"I have a pretty good idea, Dawson," he grinned slyly, his gaze moving toward the crowd I brought in with me. I could see him looking to the Loveurs the most; his eyes slanting a little at the sight of them. "It looks as though you did as I had asked, bringing in the police with you. But, that couple over there-"

"Yes, I have quite an abundance to tell you, Basil!" I nodded, also looking towards them. "Jillian, the one we talked to about Mary Pearcey, she's actually married to Benjamin Loveur!" I looked back to Basil, noting he had not said a word, nor made a flinch to the name I revealed.

"Benjamin? Really?" he faintly said. The couple looked our way and started coming closer to us. "Are you sure about this?"

"Well, yes! Why on earth would you doubt-"

"Mr. Basil!" Loveur said, extending his hand to him. "So good to see you, yet unfortunate under these circumstances!"

"Henry Loveur, it's good to see you, too."

_Henry?_

"You remember my wife, Jillian?" Loveur gestured to the female and she smiled, receiving the same expression in return. Noting my befuddled stare, Loveur turned in my direction. "Forgive me for not properly introducing myself. You must be Mr. Basil's assistant, Dr. Dawson. Henry Loveur." I looked down to his hand, strangely feeling as though I had already shaken it hours ago!

"But...but, you're not Benjamin?" I asked. At that moment, the police returned from the back rooms with three mice in handcuffs. I stared at the two workers with disgrace. The third, Benjamin Loveur, was too ashamed to look at any of us. "Uh, wait a moment! Why do I see Benjamin over there when he is right...here..." I did not want to look at Basil smiling, nor did I want to look at the expressions of Mr. and Mrs. Loveur. "Are you and Benjamin...ah.."

"Twins? Yes, we are, but with two entirely different attributes...excuse me for a moment..." Henry Loveur crossed the room and went straight over to his brother. Lifting his face up, he let out a sigh. "You and I have a lot to talk about, but right now the very sight of you is breaking my heart." Looking to the police he replied, "Please take him away, I shall speak with him later at the station! The rest of you, please search for the museum for any others that might be lurking about."

The police escorted the three rogues away. I was seeing double, there was no fooling my eyes now. I took a glance to Henry Loveur, and then over to Benjamin before he was removed out of the museum. Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I gave a hurt look to Basil. He knew and never once told me!

"Um...by the way, doctor-"

"You knew all along?"

"Well, I've known these gents for years, how could I not know that?" he asked innocently.

"They're _twins_?"

"Of course, just like the Proudfoots, Dawson," he shrugged, eyeing the children as they too started to walk out of the museum with their parents. Henry Loveur returned to us, allowing me a second chance to look him over. The brothers were identical twins with the one difference of Benjamin having a faint scar during one of their past physical encounters.

"We have much to discuss, Mr. Basil, but I think you should tend to that wound first."

"And you need to save your museum, Henry," my friend equally replied. "Before we go, I must inform you that the lower basement is flooded with a massive chemical spill. That needs to be cleaned up immediately. One more thing..." Basil took Henry aside and whispered something only he could hear. I saw the curator sigh before muttering this line:

"We will contact you as soon as everything is taken care of, Mr. Basil. You have my word on that."

As we waited outside for a hansom with the Proudfoots, I was given the chance to hear much of what I was curious about from the very start. Basil had known the Loveur brothers before they moved their museum from Baker Street to Marylebone Road. He met Jillian Loveur two weeks ago when he shared the same hansom home with the couple. Henry spoke of a project in the works involving my friend and Professor Ratigan, but they were having difficulty making the wax figure of the latter. Workers had to go into the underground to obtain information to make a precise rendition of the professor. At the same time, the Loveur brothers were at odds with one another, having terrible disputes and causing distance.

Jillian privately married Henry, but neither one told Benjamin. She went to the museum several times to observe the rise and fall of displays. Her sister, Susan, is in the costume department, and allowed her to look around behind the scenes. She was informed that two of the workers, namely Charles and Leonard, were making frequent trips to the Rat Trap, not only to learn about the professor, but to see the showgirls on stage. These workers started talking to the professor's former minions. Since these were criminals, Henry told his workers never to return to the pub again, that they had to find their own way to make the professor's figure. By then, Benjamin was having one row after another with his brother; he told his workers not to listen to him. They, in turn, started to plan on their own how to perfect the professor's wax figure. My doubts about what happened to his _body_ had finally come to an end.

"While you were in the museum, a police official told me a team of searchers never found his body near the clock tower," I said, watching Basil lower his head.

"And they never would have, not when his thugs came and collected the remains," he replied softly. "I heard that they kept and preserved the professor's body all these months, planning some sort of resurrection. That plan never saw the light of day."

"Why is that?" I asked.

Basil continued. "Charles and Leonard were preparing to make the wax figure of the professor after all of the gathered notes. There was just one problem: they were running out of materials, time, and most importantly, money. This was a huge project they were working on, and they wanted it done right. They finally went down a very wrong and very diabolical path. Not only did they 'borrow' a lot of money from the museum's safe..." he paused and looked up. "They took the professor's body too."

"What?!" I stared with my jaw dropped. "But, how did they do it?"

"Bribery is what did it, what else?" Basil said, still talking in a hushed voice. "They came around once more to the professor's hideout, offering hefty amounts of banknotes in exchange for his body. The thugs felt this was a profitable way to go rather than give their former boss a proper burial."

"And the mechanical features?"

"Undoubtedly, the workers found Flaversham's name in the London Mouse, discovering it was the same toymaker who invented a robot of our queen," Basil answered. "Since they were mainly assigned to the displays in the Chamber of Horrors, they wanted to increase their frightening acts by installing moveable parts, to give their audience a bit of a scare. Loveur contacted our old friend, trying out their first robotic experiment with the display of the foot of Mary Pearcey."

"They didn't cut off and steal the poor woman's _real_ foot, did they?" I was afraid to ask, yet, at the same time, curious. Basil remained silent for several seconds. "Did they?!"

"Of course not, Dawson! I was just amused by the direction your thoughts often take you," he chuckled. "But, it is very true about Ratigan's body. That's what they were using the Hydrol chemical for; to keep the dead tissue from rotting beneath the wax and wires."

"Goodness, Basil...that is just awful, even for the professor," I replied, waiting for Basil to say something. Instead, he looked away solemnly. "But, we still never found out who sent you that letter in the first place."

"On the contrary, I have a very strong idea who typed up that grammatical mess of a note, Dawson," he said, now lifting his familiar smug grin. "You see, I have reason to believe that not only was there bribery, there was a bargain. As you know, I receive death threats almost on a weekly basis, but would I get a trick letter from an acquaintance who works as a curator? Not likely, unless money was involved. You and I both know it wasn't Benjamin who typed that letter, but who else would have easy access to his office either by key or forceful entry?"

"Henry?" I asked; he shook his head no. "One of the workers?" His smile broadened next. "Who was it? Charles or Leonard? Do you know?"

"I had to frisk an anonymous female to get my answer, but yes, I have no doubt that it was Charles." Frisk an anonymous female? I started to ask, but Basil casually continued. "The workers took a substantial amount of banknotes from the museum's safe to hand over to the thugs in exchange for the professor's body. Benjamin Loveur blamed Henry for the missing currency and fired him. But meanwhile, Benjamin was performing depravities of his own by having his ways with one of his female employees...right in his office." I looked perplexed, forcing him to jog my memory. "Remember the blue sequins you found on his desk?"

"Having his ways with her? You mean he..." Basil did not have to say it, nor did I. "That scoundrel!"

"Indeed," Basil faintly nodded, grinning to another gasp I could not suppress. "The young and naïve costumer was busy doing her job when she got called in to her employer's office to have a little _conference_. Let's just say Henry walked in to the office and caught his brother in flagrante delicto!"

"What a cad," I groaned.

"It takes two to tango; she is not quite guilt-free herself, Dawson," he said with a shrug. "As you recall, Benjamin told us it was his brother who was smitten with a girl from the costume department. We were naturally told a lie when his mannerisms, stutter in voice, lack of eye contact, and lack of memory of his costumer's name were clues enough. But, he thought he might get away with it since they're twins."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Basil! I am surprised no one has said a word of these devilish acts as of yet!"

"Typical exploits of indecency; one could almost write an amusing farce with the shenanigans that went on behind the scenes at this place." At the sound and vibration of a hansom approaching, Basil took a few steps back, away from the curb. "Our chariot has arrived. I could tell you more at home, if you wish-"

"No, I have heard quite enough," I huffed in disappointment. Basil tapped my shoulder in the usual way to offer a bit of condolence. That did not seem to ease the amount of shock I was verbally given. The Proudfoots, meanwhile, had fortunately been standing a foot or two away. I had preferred them missing out on such a conversation; they all had been through enough already!

* * *

Another mystery solved; the case at Madame Mussauds ended. Benjamin Loveur was, in fact, an acquaintance of Basil's who could not be trusted after all. My friend had to disagree, noting that a much stronger evil was slowly changing the mouse he once knew. That evil was known as money. Loveur's workers wanted a successful show, even if it meant doing the most unthinkable and diabolical of schemes. I was not given very many details of what happened while he was held captive in the museum's basement, only that he never wanted to speak to that dastardly curator again.

Upon returning to our flat, I immediately tended to Basil's leg wound, noting he needed to stay off of his feet. The stubborn mouse, of course, refused to listen to a doctor's orders. As a token of gratitude, the Proudfoot twins came around to give the detective some gifts: a basket of assorted cheese. After hearing my friend was a difficult patient and would not sit still for good lengths of time, Mr. Proudfoot loaned him one of his many walking sticks. Basil graciously accepted the gifts from his neighbors while I, on the other hand, could not stop staring at all of the offered cheese!

It took several days for my friend to properly heal from his injury, and I was certain another wound would never go away: betrayal. It was not the first time someone he called a friend had deceived him, not by a long shot. Seeing how this news affected him, I told him he could always trust me. I was sure that helped after a wide smile crossed his lips.

A full week had gone by when Basil received news of when the police were planning to bury the professor's body. He had a better idea. With no family or friends to contact, it was settled to have him cremated with the ashes spread in the Thames River. On Sunday, the 31st of October, we told Mrs. Judson to turn anyone away who came to our door, and left to take care of a small matter. An officer carried the box with the professor's ashes as we both walked along the edge of the Thames. The official handed Basil the box and he stared down at it.

"Give us a moment, please," he told the officer.

"Of course, sir," the officer nodded and stepped away.

"Should we say something?" I quietly asked.

"What is there to say?" he replied, still staring at the box. "This is it, Dawson. The professor is gone. He can no longer harm us or anyone else in the world. It's over..." his words cut off as he looked away. Something was troubling him; I could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. It was then I realized he was feeling some bereavement.

"Don't tell me you're sad that he's dead? He was a rogue, a murderer, the Napoleon of crime, and-"

"And yet, he was also a genius...much like myself," Basil interrupted. "He could have done many great things if he used his talents for good instead of bad. Before I met you, I spent several years tracking him down, and when I got close enough to him, he would elude my grasp every time. He would live to fight another day, another chance to kill an innocent. I pursued him both day _and_ night, and he was always one step ahead of me. I followed him, he followed me, it became sort of a game between us. That ship has now sailed, Dawson. Others will appear to commit crimes, but none, I daresay, none will ever come as close to his brains and intelligence."

Basil moved closer to the edge of the water and looked out across its surface. Carefully opening the box, he started to turn it upside down when-

"Stop!"

We both turned to see a young lady running along the beach and moving closer toward us. Her face was concealed beneath a black hooded cloak, but I could clearly see her white fur and beautiful blue eyes. It took me a few seconds to realize who she was while my friend instantly recognized her.

"Oh, my...I know who you are," I said. "You're one of those dancers from the Rat Trap! But how did you know to-"

"I got a tip-off from someone that told me you two would be here." She paused directly in front of Basil and lowered her eyes upon the box. "I came to pay my last respects."

"But, why?" I asked. "How did you know the professor?"

"Simple, Dawson," Basil answered. "He was her employer."

"What?!"

"It's true, doctor. Please let me explain," she said with a sniff. "He may have been a murderer and did terrible things, but he wasn't at all like that with me. He treated the other dancers and I with the utmost respect and kindness. Some of us originally came from a brothel. We had nowhere to go, and we had very little education. It was Ratigan who got us jobs as burlesque showgirls at the pub, and he promised to get us back into school. All of that changed the night he died."

"I cannot believe what I'm hearing," I shook my head. "I never thought I'd hear the words 'respect' and 'kindness' to describe Ratigan."

"There was a time he had some good in him, Dawson," Basil stated, looking down to the box. "It was, however, a very long time ago, before I met you or this dancer. He was known for doing charitable work, getting those less fortunate into programs and becoming fully educated. I know that is something very hard to hear, even believe, but it's true."

"For a while I was angry at you, detective, I even blamed you for his death," the showgirl said in a whisper, "but then I knew there had to be more to the story, more to your side of what exactly happened on that clock tower."

"It was a fight to the death," he replied softly. "What happened that night has made me a changed mouse. Ratigan kidnapped Flaversham's daughter and he almost killed her. Had I not been there, she would have died. I got her out of there and safely handed to her father. Ratigan, meanwhile, had other plans in store. He intended to kill me that night. It was either him or me, and I was not about to let him, the Napoleon of crime, win. When he took me down with him, I thought it was all over for the both of us. In my quick thinking, I pulled down the detached propeller from his dirigible and used that to save myself. Unfortunately, I could not save us both."

The dancer turned away and gazed out along the river. Basil did the same, exhaling a little and gripping the box. I too, was, speechless, but for reasons obviously different than theirs. For every moment spent pursuing that fiend on the Flaversham case, I only had one thought on my mind: putting an end to the professor's scheme. I would have preferred to see him behind bars, or, so help me, get the maximum sentence of the death penalty. This was an unexpected route for all of us to face. Basil was not a murderer, not from my perspective. Ratigan gave chase and we followed, but mainly to save the toymaker's daughter. Accidents happen. Some lives are lost, and some go on living.

"Are you ready, doctor?" Basil asked, snapping me out of a mild trance. I could only shrug. "And you, miss?" I looked to the dancer; a single tear escaped and slid down her cheek. One nod was enough for Basil to step closer to the water and kneel down. With a simple flick of the wrist, he turned the box upside down and opened the lid. He then waved his arm from left to right, allowing the ashes to spread evenly. I slowly approached from behind and watched this act in silence. While I felt a sense of relief, I knew my friend was feeling a sense of loss. The dancer inched closer and knelt beside Basil. She pressed her fingers to her mouth and carefully patted them on the water.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Farewell, Professor Padraic Ratigan. May the afterlife serve you well," he quietly uttered. I placed my hand upon Basil's shoulder as he quickly closed the box and turned to face me. Changing his tone to a more lively one, he said, "Right! Let's go, Dawson!"

Without another word, he slightly bowed to the young lady. She nodded once, departing in the opposite direction. I followed behind the detective, knowing deep down he was once again pushing his emotions as far away from his exterior as possible. I gave one last look to the river and to the scattered ashes with a heavy sigh.

"Farewell, Ratigan. Farewell, indeed..." As I walked away, I heard an old song suddenly repeat itself in my head, one that I knew both Basil and I would never forget...

_Goodbye, so soon  
And isn't it a crime?  
We know by now that time knows how to fly  
So here's goodbye so soon  
You'll find your separate way  
With time so short I'll say so long  
_

_And go..._

_So soon..._

_Goodbye..._

* * *

End of Chapter 5/Epilogue. Notes:

The plot of making the Loveur brothers twins was one I played a lot with, debating on which would be the real criminal behind wanting to rid of Basil and not caring what materials their workers used to make the figures. I turned it around to the one who hid behind a mask the entire time to everyone. I almost was going to twist it with Henry being the culprit, but then used the confusion of their identical looks instead.

A full scene with Basil, Dawson, and the Loveur couple was typed out to reveal everything, but when it got too long, I cut it all out. I figured with Basil being injured, Dawson wouldn't want to waste time getting him the medical attention he needed. Instead, I cut down the revelations through some dialogue as Basil and Dawson waited with the Proudfoots for a carriage.

I originally had it where Jillian's sister, Susan, from the costume department, was having an affair with her husband Henry, meaning Benjamin wasn't lying to Basil and Dawson when they found blue sequin pieces. Figuring that was going into too much detail and storyline of a minor character, I scrapped it. The costumer Benjamin had an affair with in his office was just a random girl, but the same who worked on the _Swan Lake_ display of ballet dancers.

Mr. Proudfoot offers Basil a walking stick to use while his injured leg mends. In the first Eve Titus book, Basil has his own walking stick.

A back story was never revealed about how much or how littler Basil and Ratigan knew each other. I have some speculation that there was a time Ratigan used to do good than bad, or the two met at a university, before choosing their paths. Miss Kitty is supposed to be depicted as a burlesque dancer, not a stripper, and that made me feel she was doing the side work to get money to go back to school with the help of the professor.

Vincent Price was cremated and his ashes were spread in an unknown place. It was only fitting to have Ratigan's remains cremated, but more so that no one could abuse them.


End file.
